Somebody Saw You
by DeejayMil
Summary: Sherlock was like a gun to his brain, a force that had exploded into his life and taken over, and when he was gone, all that was left was a gaping, messy wound that wouldn't heal.


(Two weeks)

John's hands shake as he holds the skull, trying to ignore the fact that he's talking to it as though it's alive. As though it's... him. "There was an article in the paper today. The Sun, they've been obsessed with you ever since... somebody saw you at the station. With a man, and a suitcase. Said you didn't give any information, just left." He takes a deep breath, letting it hiss out between tightly clenched teeth. "I don't know if I wish it was you, or not. Whether you being alive is better than you... I need you back Sherlock. I'm losing my mind."

He huffs a laugh, with none of his usual warmth to it, and places the skull gently back onto the mantle. "You push me to the limits, Sherlock. I can't take it."

(One month)

One down, one to go. The two men didn't stand a chance, dead as soon as the shadows shifted and the avenging angel that is Sherlock swoops out of the darkness at them. He stands over the last man and tries to feel something, anything, but all that's left is a cool anger, and a dryness to his mouth that won't go away no matter how much he drinks.

The man whimpers and begs beneath him, and Sherlock's gut twists and he snarls inhumanly, cold anger exploding into a burning rage. He's animalistic, fighting for everything that matters to him, and caring never was an advantage, except when it is. When he needs to find the courage to end a human's life, to aim the weapon, bullet in the chamber, and pull the trigger. He watches with empty eyes as the man's blood, and one threat to his John, pools on the ground under him.

He uses his love as a loaded gun, and every time he pulls the trigger, it's with memories of John and Baker Street and Mrs. Hudson's teas and Lestrade's acceptance, and it keeps him going when he would fall.

It's been one month, and he doesn't know how much longer he can play with danger, until shooting to kill is all he knows and there's nothing left of the Sherlock from before.

(one year)

He withdrew, couldn't face the looks anymore. He knows those looks, that pity in their eyes, and it sickens him. He doesn't need their pity, their sad looks and useless sentiments.

He fought a war, he can survive this. Besides, he's lived more of his life without Sherlock than with, he will not fall to pieces over this.

But he knows a losing battle, and he can feel the grief taking over, triggered by such stupid, silly things, like the half empty jam that Sherlock favoured, or the frozen fingers in the ziplock bag. Knows he's lost when he realizes it's been months since he left the flat apart from work or food, and that he's lost hours just staring at the bullet holes in the wall.

The grief rears like an angry monster, and threatens to overwhelm him from within, to tear him to pieces until there's nothing left but a John shaped puddle of blood and bone on the floor of the flat.

Most of all, he's knows it's won when he contemplates how clean and quiet it would be if it all just stopped. When he closes his eyes and dreams of Sherlock, waiting just beyond the veil, and when he awakens, his hand is reaching out, and he wonders if when it's over, if Sherlock will truly be waiting.

He knows that Lestrade can see it in his eyes, the way they don't focus on the world anymore, as though John is already a ghost and it's everyone else whose having a hard time catching up. The DI keeps up a steady stream of texts to his phone, and if he doesn't reply to at least one out of every ten, he turns up on the doorstep with a few bottles of cheap scotch and a determined expression.

The only time he feels alive again is when he retraces the walks that him and his consulting detective once took, cutting across private property, and pretending that the flicker up ahead wasn't the shadow of a tree, but the flash of a coat dashing around the corner.

Sometimes he comes across muggers or thieves on these walks, and he wades into frays with them without a second thought, content in the knowledge that if he dies, there's something to look forward to, and if he doesn't, he's done some good anyway. Afterwards, Lestrade patches him up and reads him the riot act, and John knows that one of these days, they'll throw him in the squad car and throw away the key, but he can't be arsed to care.

Caring is not an advantage, and John would never tell Sherlock, but Mycroft was right, because all caring gave him was this empty ache where there used to be Sherlock, and if he didn't realize how much room his flatmate had actually taken up in his heart until he was gone, well that was nothing new. The flat had always been an extension of Sherlock to the point where the only place you could be guaranteed to find a trace of John was his room and the fridge, labelled sticky notes with John's careful handwriting proclaiming them Sherlock free zones.

While alive, Sherlock had taught John how to live. Now he was gone, his absence was teaching John a new kind of living, a madness that stems from being alone and spiralling.

After all, John was the only one who ever tried to love Sherlock Holmes. Now that he was gone, John was more alone that ever.

(Twenty-six months, fifteen hours)

Sherlock stood in the shadows, and watched as John walked alongside Lestrade, plain clothed Lestrade, staggering home from the pub. They were drunk, and loud, and if there was a forced joviality to John's laughter, Sherlock didn't hear it through the pain of betrayal.

Because their arms were around each other, and John leant on Lestrade for support in a way that suggested the detective had been there many times before to offer said arm. Been there when Sherlock wasn't, because Sherlock was dead and in the ground, and there was nothing holding them back.

Sherlock watched as John gave himself, battered and scarred, into Lestrade's care, and tried to tell himself that it didn't matter, that he didn't save his friend's life only to walk away because said friend had found solace in the arms of another.

He ghosted after them, pale and heartsick, worn down physically and emotionally after two years of hunting and killing with not a kind word between, watched as John unlocked the door to Baker Street and took Lestrade into their home. No, John's home. Not Sherlock's. Never again would it be Sherlock's, he realized that now.

When the light the John's room flickered on, Sherlock flinched and turned to walk away. Clearly John and Greg had had a busy day, and he left them to their devices.

If he had stayed two more minutes, he would have seen the detective let himself out through the front door, and walk down the street with slumped shoulders, hopeless with the knowledge that John, for all his fake smiles and laughs, was almost gone forever.

And if later that night, some small clue he had deduced in John's clothes or walk suddenly made itself clear to him, causing a dramatic race through the quiet London streets, well, he could only blame himself for missing it at the time.

(Twenty-six months, seventeen hours, eight minutes)

It was just another bullet in the chamber. One more bullet, out of many that he'd .loaded and shot throughout his life.

He didn't know why tonight was it, but suddenly, the flat quiet in a way it never was when Sherlock was alive, John couldn't take it anymore.

Lestrade was gone, with promises that they would hit the pub again next week, promises that John has no intention of fulfilling. He slid the bullet, the last bullet, into the chamber and ran his hands over the smooth body of the gun, mind blissfully empty for the first time in months.

He had loved it, playing with danger, and now it was over, and soon he would be over too. He placed the gun to his temple, traced it over his skin, the metal cold and more real than anything he had felt in months, and he held it gently. Carefully, as though the gun was an extension of himself, his love for Sherlock made corporal in the form of a loaded weapon aimed at his temple.

Because wasn't that the most apt description for them, Sherlock a bullet that had exploded into John's live with the force of a speeding train, and then left behind a shattered, messy wound that wouldn't heal when he was done. Sherlock was gun that shot to kill, and it was finally going to be the fatal wound.

He closed his eyes and placed a finger on the trigger when the door slammed open and time stopped. Because he hadn't fired the weapon yet, but when he opened his eyes, Sherlock was standing there, hair cut shorter than usual, skinny and dirty and bruised, but real. Sherlock, pale eyes wide with shock and horror, arm reaching for him even though the tall detective was rigid with terror.

They stared at each other and John slowly lowered the gun and the then time, with a stuttering start like a faulty motor, begun to slowly tick again. For the first time in twenty-six months, John took a deep breath and felt the air fill his lungs in a way that screamed alive. The world slowly righted and later he would be angry and there would be yelling, but right now there was only this.

The gun slipped to the floor, and he stood and took the steps that brought him close to his friend, close enough that his hand could reach and run down the sharp cheekbones he'd only ever dreamed of seeing again, let alone touching. He could feel the warmth of Sherlock's skin, the fluttering pulse of a living man, the quiet intake of breath as their skin met.

If it was a dream, John had nothing to lose, so he stood on tiptoe and his lips met the other's for the first time, and it was awkward and nothing like it should have been because they were both a little in shock and Sherlock didn't even have time to respond. The softness of his friend's lips convinced him more than anything that he was alive, and John had almost ruined everything.

He spoke first. "Somebody saw you at the station."


End file.
